


'til we run out of road

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Deanna was four years old when her dad laid the surprisingly heavy, squalling bundle in her arms and yelled, “Take your sister outside.”
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	'til we run out of road

Deanna was four years old when her dad laid the surprisingly heavy, squalling bundle in her arms and yelled, “Take your sister outside.”

It was hard to hear over the rush of fire in her ears, the trickle of fear down her back. Her feet didn’t want to listen.

“Move!” her dad roared, and Deanna did, all the way down the stairs and into the lawn, clinging onto Sam tight. She stared at the house, gulping down air that felt like it was stinging scorched lungs, peering anxiously into Sam’s face and praying she was alright.

She’d never been so grateful to hear her sister cry. And the rest, as they say, is history.

It’s hard to track the progression of her tiny kid sister, ten fingers and ten toes shockingly small—so fragile Deanna remembers fearing she’d break them—with her freakishly tall, pain in the ass sister.

She comes out of the coffee shop with two coffees and no leads, only to find Sam leaning against the car. Again.

“How many times have I told you not to do that? You’re going to scratch the paint.”

“Sorry,” Sam says, not sorry at all, but she moves, and Deanna hands her one of the coffees. “What’d you find out?”

“Nothing.”

“Ugh. I want to get out of this town.” She takes a big swig of her coffee, scalding herself in the process, and makes a face. “Come on, there’s a priest at St. Augustine’s we can talk to.”

They get back in the car, paper cups in their hands like they’ve never met a cupholder in their lives, and tear up the pavement, music blaring.

* * *

The thing about Sam is that she’s beautiful. The long limbs and rail-thin body of her youth had gone from gawky to gorgeous when Deanna wasn’t paying attention, and she’s not sure how that happened. Deanna had watched Sam like a hawk every day of their lives—it was the first and most important edict, the foundation on which she’d built her life—look after Sammy.

But somewhere along the line Sammy had grown up, filled out, become a goddamn bombshell, model-pretty with a mean right hook and grave digging arms.

The thing about Sam is that she’s Deanna’s freaking _sister._

Sam catches her staring across a pyre of smoking bones. They’re both panting hard, caked in soot, dirt, and some amount of blood—who knows how much of it is theirs. There’s a long, thin cut over Sam’s cheek, and Deanna’s shoulder burns like fire. It refuses to listen to her brain’s signals to move it, so probably dislocated again.

Sam grins when their eyes meet and improbably, Deanna does too. Their laughter rings out throughout the graveyard. Fuckin’ A.

* * *

Their high spirits last through the drive back to the motel. Deanna keeps the window down, breeze blowing through her hair. Sam’s driving beside her, eyes on the road, hands at 10 and 2.

“Nerd,” Deanna says when she notices it.

“Bitch,” Sam says affectionately.

Deanna watches the darkened forest rush by, spindly trees planted along the side of the road. There are no streetlights, no cars, no people for miles. She sinks down in her seat, rests her head against the window frame, and watches the world pass by.

Sam pops her shoulder back in place in the cramped motel bathroom. By the time they get around to it, Deanna’s well on her way to pleasantly drunk, taking swigs from a little plastic bottle of gut rot they’d picked up at a liquor store three states back.

The world’s taken on a fuzzy vibe, everything soft around the edges. It makes it easy to smile into Sam’s face—Sam’s sweet, concerned face—without worrying about the tight knot of want that coils in her belly when Sam looks at her like that.

“One, two—” Sam doesn’t get to three.

Deanna grimaces and swears a blue streak at the familiar, sickening crunch of cartilage sliding against bone. The pain flares bright and hot, unavoidable for a few scathing seconds before fading into a dull ache. Deanna rolls her shoulder, testing it.

“Now let’s see you,” she says, already reaching out.

“I’m fine,” Sam says, but Deanna’s got a hand on her chin, already tilting Sam’s face to the shoddy light.

“It’s not so bad.” She pats Sam’s good cheek on her way to grab the bottle of hydrogen peroxide off the counter. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be pretty after.”

Sam rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t protest. The smirk melts off Deanna’s face while she works, dabbing away mud and dried blood from the slice on Sam’s cheek. It’s not so bad once she gets most of the muck away. The cut is long but not deep, and the work is meditative. Deanna loses herself to it, the rhythm of fingers against skin. She rinses the washcloth out in the sink and pours hydrogen peroxide on a clean corner of it. She dabs it against the wound.

Sam hisses at the first touch before relaxing her shoulders. She tilts her head back to give Deanna better access, and her eyes slide shut, until they’re held at half-mast. It isn’t until the cut is cleaned to Deanna’s satisfaction that her eyes gravitate toward the long slope of Sam’s throat, tanned with summer sun. A light sheen of sweat is shellacked over it, a testament to the air conditioner that’s on the fritz, the whole motel hot as balls.

Deanna’s mouth goes dry. She wants to lick it, wants to taste to see if the lean line of Sam’s throat is as soft as it looks.

She comes back to herself with the sound of fabric shifting. Sam’s looking at her, eyes dark under flickering lights. Deanna’s still got her hand on Sam’s shoulder, and she moves away, fishing a piece of gauze and some tape out of their kit.

She clears her throat and finishes patching Sam up as quick as she can, no more dawdling.

“There. You’re good,” she says, voice gruff. Her throat feels dry and tight, a sensation she can’t _(won’t)_ name trying to claw its way up her chest. She uncaps the bottle, almost totally cashed, and takes another swig.

Sam catches her hand as it descends, long, thin fingers wrapping around Deanna’s wrist.

The first thing she feels is fear—an illogical, whiskey-hazed fear that Sam will _know,_ that she’ll feel it in Deanna’s pulse rabbiting under her fingers—but if Sam knows, if she notices at all, she doesn’t show it. She takes the whiskey bottle from Deanna’s hand before Deanna can cap it, brings it up to her mouth and drains it at a swallow.

Some of it misses the mark. A thin trickle of amber creeps lazily down the side of Sam’s face, dripping from the corner of her mouth, and Deanna doesn’t think. She pushes forward and laps it up, running her tongue up the side of Sam’s chin in a slick, leisurely curl. Their mouths slide together, and Sam tastes like whiskey, tastes like blood and that watermelon gum she's always chewing. Deanna's fingers curl through her hair.

Sam’s breath catches in her throat, and Deanna jerks back so hard she hits her head on the wall of the too-small bathroom.

“Shit. _Shit.”_ She’s scrambling, trying to get away and can’t go fast enough because she kissed Sam. She _kissed_ Sam. And the whiskey is roiling in her gut, and what felt warm and pleasant thirty seconds ago is threatening to make her sick, the sticky-sweet burn rising up the back of her throat, and she nearly chokes on it.

“Deanna! Dee, wait—”

Sam grabs for her, but she’s too fast. She tears her wrist free and catches her shoulder on the door, pain jarring down her already bruised arm. She’s out the door and in the car before Sam can catch up. She’s miles away before she opens the door, tumbles her way onto the cold, wet grass of the deserted shoulder, and heaves.

* * *

Deanna drives. She drives without purpose, aimlessly crawling her way across deserted highways. She spends most of their full tank of gas, and Sam is quiet in bed by the time she makes it back, stumbling in stinking of regret with the first cold light of morning.

It’s still too dim to see, the quiet air of their room painted in shades of twilight blue, but even though Sam doesn’t move, Deanna knows she’s awake. Sisters just know, and the thought hurts like anything.

Sam doesn’t say anything, and Deanna can’t even be glad. Shame burns at her and follows her even into the dark of her dreams.

* * *

They don’t talk about it in the morning.

Sam hands her a cup of shitty, burned coffee that tastes like heaven itself. She calls Deanna a bitch and snaps her gum and acts like a fucking pain in the ass. They get in the car and drive.

**Author's Note:**

> Generally [here](https://twitter.com/lovetincture).


End file.
